CHAPTER 9 — THE MISSING PAGES
The eighteenth of May began with the dull ache of overused muscles. Raghav felt it before he was fully awake — a stiffness running from fingertips to wrist when he flexed his right hand under the sheet. He remembered why the moment he opened his eyes: he'd spent nearly all of yesterday bent over a notebook with a fountain pen. He let out a breath and sat up.
The room was still washed in the pale grey light that came before the rest of the apartment woke. Beyond the half-open door, morning was settling into place — water hissing on the stove, a cupboard closing, his mother's footsteps between kitchen and living room.
On the desk beside the window sat the stack of handwritten pages, exactly where he'd left it. Forty-odd pages. Just yesterday morning it had been two words in a notebook; now it filled an entire corner of the desk.
He crossed the room, picked up the stack, and read from the beginning. The opening held together — the island, the strange accident, the slow-building promise that something had already gone wrong. He turned page after page, frowning now and then at an awkward sentence or a thin description. Overall, though, it was better than he'd expected. Not good enough to publish, not even close — but unmistakably the story. It was there.
Then he reached the middle, and his fingers stopped. Three blank pages. Across the top of the first, he'd scrawled four words in a hurry: Come back later.
He stared at them. Yesterday he'd known something belonged there — not vaguely, but with certainty. An important scene connected everything before and after it. He remembered the frustration of sitting here, pen hovering, feeling the shape of the memory without being able to reach it — like waking from a dream sure it had mattered, only to watch every detail slip away the moment you tried to describe it.
He closed his eyes and tried again. Nothing came. Dinosaurs. The island. Grant. Sattler. Malcolm. Storm clouds over the park — fragments arrived easily enough, but the missing scene didn't. It stayed just out of reach, close enough that he could almost believe it would surface if he waited one more minute. It didn't.
He opened his eyes and sighed. "So much for sleeping on it."
He rested both hands on the desk and looked at the blank pages again. This wasn't ordinary forgetfulness — that was what bothered him. The memory didn't feel faded. It felt like it was somewhere else. Waiting.
An odd thought drifted through his mind. What if he'd been looking in the wrong place? He'd spent all of yesterday trying to remember the story. Maybe that wasn't what he should be remembering at all.
He stayed at the desk, refusing to surrender to three empty sheets of paper. If the scene existed in his memory — and he was sure it did — there had to be a way back to it.
He reached for the notebook where, over the past week, he'd been jotting down odd observations about his second life — mostly practical reminders rather than revelations. USD/JPY — wait. Don't overreact. Patience is still a decision. Ideas are cheap. Execution isn't.
He turned to a fresh page and wrote: Missing scene. Underneath it, he listed everything he still knew: Visitors arrive on the island. Hammond insists everything is under control. Malcolm is already suspicious. Storm approaching. Tour begins. And then — nothing.
He stared at the list. The answer should have been obvious. Instead, it only made the gap feel bigger. The beginning connected. The ending connected. Only the bridge between them had vanished.
He frowned. This had happened before, in his old life — a name sitting stubbornly on the edge of memory for hours before surfacing while he brushed his teeth or waited at a traffic light. Memory wasn't a filing cabinet. It was messy, associative. Sometimes remembering one thing meant approaching it from a different direction.
He tapped the pen against the desk. "If I can't remember the scene..." He stopped. A different thought took its place. "Then maybe I should remember—" He looked at the title across the first page of the manuscript. "—the moment I first read it."
The idea sounded absurd. Not impossible — just different. Yesterday he'd tried to reconstruct a story. Today he wasn't interested in the story at all, but in one particular day somewhere inside fifty-two years of another life. Where had he been? How old? Had he bought the book, or borrowed it? Read it in one sitting? He couldn't say — and that only made him more curious.
He leaned back and closed his eyes. Not to force a memory — just to look for a younger version of himself, holding a paperback with a black dinosaur skeleton on the cover. Nothing happened. Only darkness, and the distant sounds of breakfast in the kitchen.
He almost laughed at himself. "What exactly did I expect?"
Then something shifted. Not outside. Inside.
───
Nothing happened — only the familiar darkness behind his closed eyelids, the muffled clatter of utensils from the kitchen, his sister saying something emphatic in the next room while his mother patiently translated toddler logic into ordinary language. Raghav exhaled quietly. He was about to open his eyes when something changed.
It wasn't dramatic — no falling sensation, no flash of light. The kitchen sounds simply moved farther away, the way a conversation drifts toward the far end of a long corridor. His sister's voice thinned into something he could no longer make words out of. Then it was gone entirely, and there was only the darkness, and one image sitting quietly at the centre of it: a paperback. Nothing else. He held onto it gently, afraid that looking at it too directly would make it disappear.
His breathing slowed without him meaning it to. The darkness stayed, but it no longer felt empty — it felt deep. And underneath the stillness was a sensation he hadn't expected: not falling, not moving. Letting go. As though he'd been holding something taut without realizing it, and had only now allowed his grip to loosen.
Then the darkness moved. Not physically — time moved, and there was no other way to describe it. This wasn't images, or dreams, or scattered memories. It was something stranger: his awareness rushing forward through years he'd never consciously witnessed, all at once, the way a train thunders past too fast to make out the individual carriages.
Birthdays, classrooms, hostel rooms, apartments, office buildings, airports — entire years flickered past, beyond recognition, gone before he could grasp them.
He couldn't stop them, and he wasn't choosing them. His mind seemed to be moving toward a destination it understood far better than he did.
Then everything slowed — not suddenly, but naturally, the way a train eases into a familiar station. The rushing faded. Silence returned. And with it came weight: the unmistakable weight of a book resting in his hands.
His fingers tightened around the paperback. He could feel the rough texture of the cover under his thumb, the faint smell of fresh paper and printing ink. Not imagined. Remembered.
He looked down. A black skeletal dinosaur stood against a white background. JURASSIC PARK. For one impossible moment, he forgot that anything about this was strange at all. This was simply where he was.
He knew this room — not because he remembered it, but because he was standing inside it. A modest apartment. Late-afternoon sunlight filtering through cream-coloured curtains. A cup of tea cooling on the centre table. The low hum of an air conditioner somewhere behind him.
He sat down on the sofa almost automatically — or rather, realized he was already sitting there. There was no younger Raghav to observe, no older one watching from a distance. There was only him, exactly as he had once been.
The paperback creaked softly as he opened it. The first page turned under his fingers, and he began to read — word after word, not trying to memorize anything, simply reading exactly as he had all those years ago.
Only after several paragraphs did a faint unease creep in. Something wasn't right. He knew this room. He knew this life. He knew this book. And yet, somewhere impossibly distant, there was another bedroom, another desk — three blank pages waiting beside a bottle of ink.
The thought came and went like a ripple across still water. He frowned for the briefest instant — then the next sentence claimed his attention, and the feeling vanished as though it had never existed.
───
He kept reading. The words unfolded with the quiet rhythm of a familiar afternoon, one chapter sliding into the next almost without him noticing. Every so often he paused to sip tea that had grown steadily colder beside him. Once, the telephone rang somewhere else in the apartment; he ignored it. At some point he shifted his weight against the cushions, tucking one leg beneath him without ever looking up from the page, and later, without quite registering the decision, reached over and switched on the lamp beside the sofa as the light outside began to fade.
Somewhere beyond the curtains, traffic hummed past, faint and unhurried. He smiled once at a line he'd forgotten he liked, and frowned briefly at a scientific explanation that demanded more attention than he felt like giving after work. Time lost its shape. It no longer felt like memory — it simply felt like life, an ordinary evening spent reading a remarkably good novel.
Because he was living it rather than watching it, countless details came back that he'd never have thought to search for — the slight crease near the bottom corner of page seventy-three, the moment he'd set the book down to answer a message on his phone and immediately picked it back up, the fact that he'd quietly laughed at one of Malcolm's remarks despite being completely alone. Tiny, meaningless things. Yet here they all were, intact — not because they mattered, but because they had happened.
As the story moved deeper into the island, another realization settled over him: he wasn't choosing what to remember — the memory was deciding that for him. He couldn't skip ahead or pause to study a paragraph more closely; hours seemed to pass without any of the exhaustion real hours should bring, his concentration never wandering, the whole thing complete and effortless in a way ordinary memory never was.
Then came the missing scene. He recognized it without warning — not because he'd searched for it, but because it simply arrived in its proper place: the conversation, the order of events, the subtle shift in tone right before everything began to unravel. The pages he'd left blank the day before filled themselves effortlessly in his mind. He almost laughed. That's what belonged there. It had been there all along — he simply hadn't been able to reach it.
The realization had barely finished forming when something tugged gently at the edge of his awareness. At first he ignored it — the novel was becoming impossible to put down, and he wanted just one more chapter. But the feeling returned, stronger this time. Not painful. Not frightening. Just insistent, like someone calling his name from another room.
The apartment began to blur. The words on the page softened, and though he tried to keep reading, the sentences dissolved before he could finish them. The weight of the paperback faded from his hands. The smell of paper and ink disappeared. The afternoon light gave way to another light entirely — cooler, sharper. Morning.
He opened his eyes. His bedroom in 1989 stood exactly where he had left it. The notebook lay open on the desk, and the three blank pages still waited in the middle of the manuscript.
For several long seconds he didn't move. His breathing was calm, his heartbeat only slightly faster than normal. Nothing hurt. And yet his mind carried the unmistakable sensation of having spent an entire afternoon reading.
For a few minutes, he realized, he had been home again. Not home in 1989. Home in the life that no longer existed — the sofa, the cooling tea, an ordinary evening that had once simply been his and now technically belonged to no one. It wasn't enough to make him want to cry. Just enough to sit there a moment longer than he needed to before reaching for anything else.
He looked toward the clock. Barely a few minutes had passed. The missing scene no longer felt distant — it wasn't something he was trying to recall anymore. It was something he had just read. He reached for his pen almost without thinking.
───
His fingers closed around the fountain pen almost before he realized he'd reached for it. The nib touched paper, then began to move — quickly, but not frantically, with the quiet urgency of someone copying down directions while they were still fresh in his mind.
The first sentence flowed onto the page, then the second. The conversation that had refused to exist yesterday unfolded naturally now, each line leading into the next with the same effortless certainty it had carried only moments before. There were no pauses, no uncertain blanks, no question marks left in the margins.
He scarcely looked up. The room ceased to exist for a while, replaced by ink, paper, and the steady scratch of the pen. Only when he reached the point where yesterday's manuscript picked back up did he finally stop, and the silence that returned was abrupt enough to almost startle him.
He sat back and read what he'd written, then read it again. Every sentence felt right — not because he'd invented it, but because he had only just experienced it. He looked at the three pages that had been blank less than ten minutes before.
There wasn't a trace of uncertainty left. He remembered every transition, every exchange, even small details he'd never consciously noticed the first time around — the colour of a character's raincoat, a throwaway remark that quietly foreshadowed something two chapters later, the exact order in which people had left the room. Details no ordinary memory should have preserved after decades.
A faint dryness lingered behind his eyes. His temples carried the dull, familiar ache of having concentrated too hard for too long — nothing severe, just used. He reached for the glass of water beside the bed, took a slow drink, and let the coolness settle him.
Only then did he let himself think about what had actually happened. He hadn't guessed. He hadn't reconstructed anything. He certainly hadn't become smarter overnight. He had gone back — though not physically; his body had never left the chair. Whatever this was, it wasn't a dream, and it wasn't imagination, and it wasn't ordinary memory either. Ordinary memories faded with time. This one had grown clearer the deeper he went into it, which made no sense at all — and yet there it was.
Raghav opened his eyes. His gaze drifted to the manuscript. Yesterday, those pages had represented failure. Today, they represented proof. Not that his memory was extraordinary — but that reincarnation had left him with something far stranger than memory. His previous life was still there, somehow. Not living. Not waiting. Simply accessible, if he knew how to ask the right question.
───
He sat still for another minute — not out of fear, but because he didn't trust first impressions. One experience, however impossible, proved remarkably little. He'd spent enough years in finance watching investors mistake coincidence for pattern to know that people drew huge conclusions from very little evidence. He needed another data point.
His eyes drifted across the manuscript until they landed on another small gap — not three pages this time, just half a paragraph. A conversation he'd summarized the day before because he couldn't remember the exact wording. Perfect. Specific. Small enough to test.
"No assumptions," he murmured. "If this was real—" He didn't finish the sentence. Instead he closed his eyes again, not trying to remember the dialogue this time, but trying to remember himself reading it.
The room faded more quickly — not instantly, but with a familiarity that hadn't been there before. Again came that sensation of movement through years: the rushing current, the countless forgotten days slipping past. Then the same apartment. The same paperback, already open, halfway through — he'd landed naturally in the section right after the one he'd just relived. Interesting. The memory hadn't started from the beginning. It had gone straight to the place he actually wanted.
He kept reading. Only a few pages this time — the missing conversation appeared almost at once. He read it, finished the scene, and before curiosity could tempt him further, the now-familiar pull returned. The apartment dissolved. Morning light replaced afternoon. He opened his eyes. Less than a minute seemed to have passed.
He wrote the dialogue down from memory — every line, every interruption, every small piece of narration in between. When he compared it with the abbreviated version from the day before, the difference was almost embarrassing. Yesterday's version had captured information. Today's captured people.
He leaned back. "Interesting," he said, almost without meaning to. He reached for the notebook he normally used for investment ideas, turned to a clean page, and wrote: Observations.
For a long moment he just looked at the heading. Then he began to write.
1. The memory needs a specific destination. Yesterday he'd searched for a scene. Today he'd searched for the experience of reading that scene. The difference seemed to matter. He underlined the line once.
2. I can't recall anything I never actually experienced — everything he'd recovered had already belonged to him. Nothing more, nothing less.
3. The experience is first-person. Not watching — living. That distinction mattered a great deal.
He closed his eyes again — not enough to trigger anything, just to think — and the physical sensations came back first: the paperback in his hands, the smell of paper, the weight of the sofa, the sound of the air conditioner. None of that should have survived thirty years. And yet it had.
4. Sensory detail comes back with the memory. Sight. Sound. Touch. Even smell.
He stared at the growing list, and a slow smile tugged at his mouth. Not excitement — recognition. This wasn't some gift handing him answers. It preserved effort. Everything he'd genuinely learned — every lecture, every conversation, every book, every mistake — hadn't actually been lost, only hard to reach. And now, perhaps, not unreachable after all.
───
Raghav looked at the list a moment longer, then closed the notebook. Enough. He could spend the rest of the day trying to understand what had happened, or put it to use — and there was probably no better way to study the phenomenon than by working with it. He pulled the manuscript back toward himself. The pages he'd filled the day before no longer looked unfinished. They looked patient, as if waiting for him to learn how to ask the right question.
He found the next gap — not large, just a scene where he'd scribbled two hurried paragraphs and drawn an arrow in the margin. Expand.
He read the surrounding pages, closed his eyes, and let the question settle: the afternoon I read this part. He didn't push. He simply waited.
The transition came almost right away — the familiar rush, the blur of passing years, then the apartment again, the paperback already open, his older self leaning back into the sofa with one finger tucked between the pages, reaching for the now-lukewarm cup of tea. Without thinking, he lifted it and took a sip. Cold. He remembered making a face at the taste before going back to reading — a tiny, pointless detail that almost made him smile. Who remembers cold tea after thirty years? Apparently he did. Or some part of him always had.
The scene unfolded, and this time he paid less attention to the story and more to himself. His eyes lingered over certain paragraphs. He slowed whenever the science got complicated, and without meaning to, reread one exchange between Malcolm and Hammond before moving on. He hadn't noticed any of those habits the day before, because yesterday he'd been trying to remember the novel. Today he was remembering the reader. That difference mattered.
When the memory let him go, he came back to 1989 with another wave of mental fatigue — not painful, just heavy, the way you feel leaving an exam hall after hours of concentrating. He rubbed his eyes once, then started writing right away.
The expanded scene came together almost effortlessly. Sentences connected where they'd stumbled the day before. The descriptions gained texture, the dialogue found its rhythm. By the time he set the pen down, the margin note had disappeared under fresh paragraphs. One blank space gone. Several still remained.
───
The pattern repeated through the rest of the morning — not endlessly, and not effortlessly. Each trip back demanded real concentration, and each one left him a little more tired than the last. He learned quickly that greed was a mistake: after one particularly long retrieval, he reached automatically for another, and nothing happened. His mind simply refused, the way an overworked muscle declines one more repetition. He accepted the refusal without annoyance and leaned back in his chair.
"So there is a limit."
Good to know. He drank a glass of water, stretched his cramped shoulders, and wandered to the window for a few minutes, watching the neighbourhood children invent games that needed neither rules nor explanations. By the time he returned to the desk, the pressure behind his eyes had eased, and the memory welcomed him back in. Another observation: recovery mattered.
He smiled to himself — not because he'd discovered a superpower, but because he was running an experiment, and that was familiar ground. Whether it had been agriculture, financial markets, or now the odd consequences of reincarnation, the process never changed: observe, hypothesize, test, revise, never assume. By lunchtime, the three empty pages weren't the only gap that had vanished. The manuscript had quietly become whole.
───
The afternoon settled into its own rhythm: read, think, remember, write. The first few times, he caught himself hesitating before closing his eyes, half expecting the connection to fail simply because it had already worked so many times that morning. It never did. But it never became routine, either — each return carried the same quiet disorientation, the same feeling of slipping into another lifetime without ever leaving his chair. He stopped trying to understand it. Understanding could wait. The manuscript couldn't.
───
The blank spaces disappeared one by one. Some took only a minute — a forgotten description, the exact wording of a conversation, the order two scenes unfolded in. Others demanded longer trips. He'd emerge with tired eyes, drink half a glass of water, pace the room once, and start writing before the memory had a chance to soften at the edges. His handwriting changed as the day went on. The careful, deliberate script of the morning gave way, little by little, to something quicker and more confident — not untidy, just certain.
Question marks became full stops. Margin notes vanished under finished paragraphs. Arrows pointing toward missing scenes no longer pointed anywhere at all. Yesterday the stack had looked like a notebook interrupted by half-finished thoughts.
Today it looked like a manuscript — not a novel yet, but undeniably the start of one.
───
Sometime after three o'clock, he reached the final blank space. He almost laughed — only yesterday, those three empty pages had seemed like a wall his memory refused to cross. Now they felt almost insignificant. The last missing scene settled neatly into place under his pen. He wrote the final sentence, set a small full stop at the end, and closed the notebook almost ceremonially. Silence settled over the room. He flexed his aching fingers. This time, the ache felt earned.
───
He stood and stretched until his back stopped protesting. The apartment was unusually quiet — his father still busy with something, his mother having finally talked his sister into a nap. For a few minutes he just walked around the room, wanting to look at the work from a distance. When he came back to the desk, he gathered the pages into a neat stack and started reading from the beginning — not as the boy who'd written it, but as its first reader.
The opening still caught his attention. Good. The middle held together far better than yesterday. The ending landed exactly where it should. He nodded almost without thinking — the structure worked, the story worked, and the dinosaurs still carried the same quiet sense of wonder they always had. He reached the final page, read the last line, and set the manuscript down.
A slow smile spread across his face — not because he thought it was brilliant, but because it wasn't, not even close. The story was excellent. His writing was merely competent.
Once he knew to look for it, the difference was obvious: the plot carried him forward, and the prose just barely kept up. The characters spoke, but didn't quite live. The descriptions explained places without transporting him there. The science fascinated him; the people, less so.
"So that's the difference." Knowing a great story was one thing. Writing one was something else entirely. Memory could recover events, but it couldn't teach craft — no amount of reliving the novel would make him write like the man who'd created it. That should have been discouraging.
Instead, he found it oddly reassuring, because craft could be learned. Unlike memory, it belonged entirely to the present.
───
He reached for a pencil and wrote across the top of the first page: First Draft. It wasn't really a draft — closer to a reconstruction than an original manuscript — but giving it a name made it feel like the start of a process instead of the end of one.
He looked at the stack a moment longer. Just yesterday morning, it had existed only inside his head. Now it took up nearly half the desk. Tomorrow, it would belong — if only for a little while — to someone else's eyes.
───
A soft knock broke the silence. Before he could answer, the door opened just enough for a small face to peek through. His sister was wearing the solemn expression she reserved for important discoveries.
"You still writing?"
Raghav smiled. "It would appear so."
She thought about that carefully, then marched into the room with the confidence of someone who owned none of it and therefore feared nothing. She stopped by the desk, eyes widening.
"So many papers."
"There are."
She reached toward the stack with unmistakable determination. Raghav caught her hand halfway there.
"Those stay exactly where they are."
She looked at him, then at the manuscript, then back at him. "...Why?"
"Because I spent two days making sure every page ended up in the right order."
She accepted that for almost three seconds, then pointed at the top page. "Big Lizard?"
"Big Lizard."
A satisfied nod. Apparently that answered every remaining question. She wandered back toward the door, already distracted by something more important elsewhere in the apartment. Children, Raghav thought, had an extraordinary gift for losing interest in exactly the things adults were desperate to protect.
───
"Is she bothering you?" His mother's voice reached him from the hallway before she appeared in the doorway.
"No." He glanced toward the empty corridor. "She was conducting a quality inspection."
His mother laughed softly. "I hope you passed."
"Barely."
She stepped inside. Unlike her daughter, she looked at the desk before she looked at him. The manuscript had grown again. Yesterday it had been a respectable pile of handwritten pages. Today it took up nearly the whole corner of the desk. She folded her arms.
"I thought this was supposed to be a story."
"It is."
"It seems to have multiplied."
"I may have encouraged it."
She walked closer, just looking. Forty-odd pages, closely written, margins full of notes, crossed-out paragraphs, inserted pages — the kind of untidy order that only shows up after real work.
"You've been at this all day again."
"I took breaks."
She raised an eyebrow. "To drink water."
"...Mostly."
"I thought so."
Neither of them spoke for a moment — the kind of comfortable silence families share when conversation isn't necessary. Finally she asked, "So... is it finished?"
The question lingered. Finished. The word felt bigger than it should have. Was it finished? Not really — it could be better, much better. He already knew entire sections he wanted to rewrite: dialogue that felt stiff, descriptions that needed life, characters who still sounded more like information than people. And yet the story itself was complete. He nodded slowly.
"I think..." A small smile appeared despite himself. "...I finished it."
His mother looked genuinely surprised. "So quickly?"
"I've been carrying most of it around in my head for a very long time."
She studied him a moment more, then her attention went back to the manuscript. "May I read it?"
───
He looked down at the manuscript. The pages suddenly felt heavier than a moment ago. His mother noticed the hesitation but didn't interrupt it — she'd seen that expression before, usually when he was deciding something that mattered to him. She waited.
"There's one condition."
She smiled faintly. "I was wondering when those would show up."
He slid the stack toward the edge of the desk but kept one hand on the top page. "This is just the first draft, help me refine and improve it after you finished reading."
She blinked. "I would love to do that"
"If you like something, tell me why." He met her eyes. "If you don't like something..." he tapped the manuscript once, "...tell me that too."
For a second she just looked at him. Then a warmth settled into her expression that had nothing to do with pride and everything to do with recognition. This wasn't a child asking for praise. It was someone asking to improve.
"I can do that," she said quietly.
He lifted his hand away from the manuscript. She picked it up, and its weight surprised her — she hadn't expected handwritten pages to feel quite so substantial.
"You really wrote all of this?"
"I did."
"In just these few days?"
He nodded. "Mostly."
She laughed softly. "'Mostly' seems to be doing a great deal of work in that sentence."
"It usually does."
She tucked the pages against her arm and reached the doorway before pausing. "Oh — if I don't finish tonight..."
"I won't ask."
She nodded approvingly. "Good." Then she disappeared down the hallway with the manuscript.
───
The room felt strangely empty — not quieter, just lighter. His desk, buried under pages for two days, showed its scratched wooden surface again. Only the fountain pen remained. For the first time since deciding to reconstruct the novel, there was nothing left to write, remember, or fix. The work, for now, belonged to someone else.
He searched for a comparison from a life that now felt impossibly distant. Investments. The moment right after placing a trade. You could spend weeks researching, months preparing, convince yourself every assumption was sound — but once the order was executed, the market stopped caring what you believed. It would decide. Stories worked much the same way.
You could spend days choosing every word, but the moment someone else began reading, the story no longer belonged entirely to its author. The reader would decide where they laughed, where they got bored, where they stopped turning the page.
That felt more intimidating than risking money ever had. Money could be earned again. A story asked something different — it asked another human being for their time, their attention, their imagination. Harder things to deserve.
Outside, he heard his sister laughing at something only she understood, and a few moments later came the familiar sound of his father unlocking the door. Ordinary sounds. An ordinary evening. The sort that leaves no mark on history. Raghav found himself grateful for that. Not every day needed to change the future. Some days only needed to change him.
He switched off the desk lamp and stood. Tomorrow, someone else would walk into the story he'd spent two lifetimes carrying in his head. And for the first time, he would discover whether it was worth the journey.
_____
THANKS FOR READING.....